


Among the Ruins

by Marchwriter



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drama & Romance, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marchwriter/pseuds/Marchwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins. For Legolas, a chance encounter with a half-remembered ally initiates an altogether different struggle through darker and murkier shadows in the wake of Sauron’s defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IgnobleBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/gifts).



> Author’s Notes: A challenge.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters / place names are Tolkien’s.  
> Beta: All thanks to my lovely beta who, despite having her own story to finish, helped me put the final touches on mine.

Among the Ruins

 

The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

 

~D.H. Lawrence

 

Legolas stood in the last of the copper light attenuating through the branches. The outcropping’s face was awash in brightness and warmth. Below, a vast darkness welled up. His eyes alighted on the huddled form of his comrade, looking even more stunted and disgruntled from above as he stood watch over their mount. His smile wavered as he resumed his search and soon found what he wanted. Descending into the darkness, he dropped down beside his comrade.

 

Gimli, sitting with his back against the outcrop and his axe between his knees, squinted up at him. “Well?”

 

“We must move.”

 

“And here, I was beginning to think you were growing sensible at last, and I could spend at least one night with good stone beneath my legs,” Gimli muttered as he hauled himself up again.

 

“Good for the legs stone may be, but it would be poor for sleeping,” Legolas returned, plucking his pack up with one hand and taking Arod’s reins in the other. The horse needed little guidance. He knew his master’s mind well now and could smell the water. “Arod is thirsty. We pushed him long today.”

 

Gimli muttered something Legolas’ ears did not catch. He knew he had pushed his comrade’s forbearance harder than the horse today. Gimli had no liking for Fangorn and had told Legolas as much that this venture was but repayment for the Elf’s company into Aglarond, a debt to be settled. His folk had always fought the growth of trees for they wormed their way into chinks, scaled walls and broke them down, cracked foundations and destroyed the work of hands.

 

Even though Saruman’s fall had made it safer than of old, Fangorn proved Gimli’s fears well-founded. Some of the trees jeered at the Dwarf, forgetting their master’s decree. They flexed their roots under his boots, snatched at his cloak and beard, and once, covered him over in stinging nettle as if to prove that they endured longer than stone. Even Legolas’ presence could alleviate only so much.

 

But as much as Gimli’s misery dampened the journey, Legolas did not hasten it. In Aglarond, Gimli had lingered long though the oppressive darkness where no light had shone in years weighed on Legolas’ soul. It seemed ill to him, when the lantern revealed the immense beauty of the caves, that such should lie forever shrouded in darkness, known only to the few who had the courage to seek it.

 

Their camp was a quiet affair. There was no fuss. Each knew his duty. Gimli dug the fire pit and lined it with stones, trusting Legolas—or, rather, the good graces trees tended to show to Elves—in gathering the firewood. Their waybread for the journey, which they had replenished in Rohan, and some salted venison washed down with a mug of cold stream water had begun to stick in Legolas’ throat.

 

Afterwards, Gimli took up their mugs and walked down to the stream. Legolas tossed another log on the glowing fire and settled his back against the knotty wood of the yew under which he had spread his bedroll. In the unquiet of his own heart, he knew why he did not wish to leave.

 

He had hoped, upon entering the great wood that he might find his purpose renewed in the presence of ancient beings who had withstood Númenor’s rape, the blight of Sauron, the fire and destruction of Saruman. And amidst their dark and masterful splendor, Legolas did, indeed, feel like a child again, wishing he had a hundred-fold more eyes for gazing. But whenever a westerly breeze stirred the leaves, it seemed that a white and unfamiliar rush sang in his ears that the song of trees could not quite suppress. Branches heavy-laden with the flotsam of years swayed all about him, drowning the forest floor in shades of watery green.

 

Fangorn was still strong, but it had grown old long ago. Like the legend of the mortal king who sat upon the highest pinnacle of his throne and watched his lands until his white beard fell to his knees, and his eyes had grown dim from straining to see his merry youth come round again. The hands might be knotted with sinew, the shoulders broad as mountains, but desire for one’s youth did not make those green-leaf days bloom again. The red leaves fell thick at Fangorn’s feet.

 

Three times, Legolas flung fresh billets on the fire and watch them dwindle to grey shadows of themselves. Gimli still had not returned. Fangorn was safer than it had once been, but Treebeard had still seen fit to warn them against parts still quite black and unfriendly. Barring the mischief a Dwarf might come to, there was also the Enemy to consider. Though Sauron and his greatest servants had fallen into the Darkness that had ever awaited them, the news of the Battle of the Morannon and the events at the Field of Cormallen had yet to reach many parts of the world. And those who had discovered the news of their master’s demise, the deserters and outlaws of the battlefield, would be all the quicker now to revenge him. The hunted beast, wounded to death, would turn on his chasers, inflicting what harm he could simply to harm those who had robbed him.

 

Or, perhaps, he was being foolish, and Gimli merely sought some solitude. They had traveled long enough together that the petty squabbles and discomforts of the road no longer served to separate them as they once had, but it was only fair if each sought a little time to himself when the need was on him. Still…the wood was running low, and Legolas dared not leave the fire unattended to search for more.

 

The wind rose as evening fell, and the leaves filled the grove with their clamor. A dizzy rattling and creaking that sounded for all the world like wild, fearful laughter. Unsettled, Legolas rose and kicked earth over the fire before going to Arod for his white knife.

 

The swarthy man looking at him quite suddenly over Arod’s withers did not seem nearly as surprised to see Legolas as Legolas was to see him. He held Legolas’ knife between his fingers, blinking and smiling like a child with a toy.

 

He had an ill-favored look, his gaunt appearance and patched-together garments suggesting a prolonged sojourn far from the habitations of more reputable men. His eyes had a wild, liquid look as they danced over Legolas’ arms, packs.

 

Slowly, keeping his hands loose and relaxed at his sides, Legolas took a guarded step back.

 

“Well met,” he said, inclining his head. “You look as if you have traveled a long road. Would you care for something to eat?”

 

The man only continued to smile at him, and Legolas was suddenly aware of the shuffling of footsteps behind him, about him, of other shapes moving amongst the trees, a noose of figures drawing tight around their camp. At an unfamiliar hand on his bridle, Arod threw his head up sharply.

 

Legolas struck the horse’s flank, the sound cutting the air cleanly as a knife. Arod took off, dragging his handler several feet before a tree effectively loosened his hold. The sound of the horse’s retreating hooves pounded in Legolas’ ears. He felt no fear, only the blood beat in his veins, hot and hard.

 

“My comrade?” he demanded, the words clawing up his throat. “Does he live?”

 

“Longer than you.”

 

Legolas was already moving before the speaker had finished. He plucked his fallen knife from the ground, the tip quickly disappearing into the shoulder of his first adversary. But he did not linger to engage the second. When the man leapt back with a howl, Legolas darted through the gap in the circle, fleeing for the stream.

 

The light was waning fast now, the water high with recent rain. He forded it in great peril, scrambling up the bank just ahead of the hue and cry. Wet to the thighs, he crouched down on the hither bank, concealing himself amid the bracken.

 

Almost before he made the bank, the first of them cleared the treeline and stepped onto the sandy shore. He was a tall fellow, hooded and sinewy with a long sword hanging at his belt. He crouched to examine the place where Legolas had crossed in haste. Legolas, fingers aching for his bow, did not dare breathe as his hunter’s eyes tracked over the very place where he lay hid. The cold, hard eyes looked straight into his own, and Legolas felt a jolt unlike anything he had ever felt. A strange feeling he could not place a name to.

 

The man rose. Legolas braced for the hue and cry. But none came, and when he raised his head a fraction above the ferns, the streambank was empty but for the gloaming on the rocks.

 

\----------

 

A sea of darkness stretched between him and the light.

 

He kept his eyes on it even as he waded through the mystery of Fangorn, holding to as straight a course as he could manage, using his bow, which he had found covered in leaves at the foot of an oak tree, to feel his way forward. Brambles caught at his legs. Branches grasped his arms. Unseen roots tripped up underneath his feet. The light never once wavered. Pale and constant as a star, but somehow, more earthly, brighter, steadier than the vaults overheard. It had no flicker, no flame. Though some distance away, its unnatural brilliance silvered the edges of the leaves about him, gilding them with frost. Legolas followed it like a mariner the bonfires revealing the sea coasts. A message, a trap. He did not know.

 

The ground began to slope up, grew treacherous, crumbling away beneath him. He slowed lest the skitter of rocks betray. Breathless, fingers stinging, he raised his head a little to check his position.

 

The lantern, for he saw now that his mysterious star was, indeed, a lantern of some kind, sat upon a small shelf of stone just above him and to the center. It let out a slender, blue glow like the moon at its most gibbous, but Legolas could not see what burned so. Someone had hooded it. Just beyond the reach of its light on Legolas’s left, a deeper darkness split the stone in twain: a roofless cave.

 

The naked scowles were all that remained of the vanished people that had once dwelt here, the works of their delving eroded by centuries of rains and wind and overhung with moss. No one dwelt here now in permanence though, if rumors were to be believed, the intrepid or the avaricious from time to time sought the ancient treasures supposedly left behind in their darksome reaches.

 

Yet if robbers their attackers were, they had left no sign of a sentry, other than the light, no shadow deeper than any other shadow, though there were plenty places where a grown man might lie in ambush, observing and unobserved.

 

Legolas began to make his slow and painstaking way towards the nearest wall a good four meters to his left, aware that any slip of rock, any sudden shadow might betray him to the sentry. He breathed through his mouth, quieter that way, as he stretched for another hand- or foothold. All about him, the night labored and creaked. Somewhere below, a stream gurgled and whispered to the rocks. Now and again, the far-off cry of bats was flung through the night. A precious half-hour of work, stopping often to listen, and once to fumble for his knife when he thought he marked the scrape of a boot, had him three-quarters of the way there. His heart rolled in his ears. Sweat dampened his upper lip and underarms, and his shoulders and thighs trembled with the effort of holding himself in so awkward a position.

 

At last, the deep shadow of the inclining wall fell over him. The shelf beyond was utterly empty, bathed only in the dim radiance of the lantern which seemed to need neither oil nor trimming. He took a moment to gather himself then scrambled up and over the lip onto the shelf. He stayed there for a long moment, raking the shadows beside him and beyond him. Still no indication of another presence. No betraying scrape of hobnail boot on stone. No telltale sheen of a blade unsheathed in ambush or a shadow that did not move like other shadows. Behind the light, the cave stretched, dark and bottomless like a well laid upon its side.

 

The rough wall dragged over his flank as he pressed against it, the uneven coolness of the stone somehow steadying as he nocked his bow. Staying as much out of the light as possible, he began to edge his way around the semi-circle towards the cave entrance. Every couple of paces, he stopped, listened, watched for movement. He had reached the halfway mark between the lantern and the cave when he felt it. The spider’s eyes—or so his comrades-in-arms in Mirkwood had once named that prickling sensation over one’s skin, that sharp awareness of Another, when one is alone on a little-used path and the twilight is failing.

 

He did not stop. ‘Never stop’ his captain had always exhorted. Still prey is easy prey. He kept edging along the wall as if he had noticed nothing, every single one of his senses straining upward, cataloguing every subtle shift of weight, the creak of muscles, the softest of exhales through the mouth, the haunches gathering for the leap.

 

He dropped almost as soon as the shadow and lashed out hard from the ground with the haft of his bow. It connected fiercely with something that gave a soft, hoarse grunt and lurched to one side.

 

On his feet, Legolas swiped out again, striking only empty air this time, feeling forward the way a blind man feels for the earth with his stick. His knife gleamed in his other fist, bright, too bright, its edges traced with blue fire. Light and shadow swayed and grappled with one another until Legolas’s head swam with the violence of it. His assailant had tripped over the lantern and torn the hood off. For a moment, the entire shelf blazed with silver-blue flame like a star, leaving Legolas exposed and vulnerable in what previously had been liquid shadow.

 

Then darkness descended like a candle extinguished by the wind as a cloak muffled the glare. Phantom lights swirled and danced in its wake. Legolas blinked furiously, his bow still held before him. He heard no movement from the other side of the shelf. By degrees, his vision cleared to reveal by bits and pieces, a shape, crouched low beside the lantern as if his attacker’s loss of vision had rendered him too momentarily incapable of movement. The powerful shoulders and sinewy hands were unmistakable. As was the long sword hanging at his side. Stronger now, more than ever, Legolas felt that sense of Other, inexplicable and separate.

 

He edged back against the wall, casting a quick glance at the still-empty cave entrance. Letting his knife drop, he nocked another arrow from the quiver at his hip. With any luck, he might yet have enough surprise to kill this man and steal inside without his comrades coming to investigate the noise and light. The ash quivered as he hooked fore and middle fingers above and below the fletching, the third steadying the string as he drew it back to his chin. It drew without a creak, tension running like a fine thread through his shoulders, down his forearms, all the way to the arrow’s slightly curved shaft.

 

“Daro.”

 

Legolas adjusted a point, aiming to the center of the shadow.

 

“You will regret it if you shoot me, Legolas. I am more your friend than you know.”

 

His attackers had not known his name. The unmistakable hint of Silvan brogue in the other’s speech was telling, but he dared not endanger himself with his own softness.

 

“On your knees,” he barked without loosing his draw. “Keep your hands from your sword. If you are my friend, in truth, you will do as I say.”

 

The speaker remained where he was for a beat, snarled in deep shadow. Legolas sensed him tilting his head, considering, weighing. Then he knelt, his hands out to either side.

 

“Good. The lesson of trust has been well-learned.”

 

Legolas said nothing in reply, but his draw loosened ever-so-slightly.

 

The voice’s faintly chiding tone hung in the air, redolent of a crisp January morning after a night of expected peril and unexpected loss, of silver boughs and golden canopies whose dancing he would fain lose himself amongst only to be veiled by the darkness of cloth and the wariness of strangers.

 

‘Alas for the folly of these days! Here all are enemies of the one Enemy, and yet I must walk blind…’

 

‘Folly it may seem… yet we dare not by our own trust endanger our land.”

 

“Indeed,” Legolas replied to give himself time to think, hoping his companion might humor him and speak again. “And what errand brings…one of the Galadhrim so far beyond his marches?”

 

A flash of white teeth in the darkness, a subtle shake of the head. “A dark and largely unpleasant one. You are Legolas. The son of Mirkwood.”

 

“Forgive me. I do not recall your name,” Legolas said at last. It felt strange, to speak to this fellow as if they had met by chance at an inn along the roadside instead of at the edge of their weapons in the middle of a forest where none of their people had traveled for ages uncounted. “My fellows and I passed through your woods not long ago. But though the time has been short as we reckon things, much has changed—”

 

“My knees are growing numb. May I stand?”

 

“Slowly.”

 

The strange Galadhel stood and, before Legolas could utter one word of surprise or command, flipped the hood from the lantern. The silver beam lanced across his face and pricked his memory. Another, similar lamp had hung in the high branches above a platform seated amongst the silver boughs. It had raked over his person as it raked over him now, mimicking the gimlet eye cast by a soldier whose formidable presence had startled Legolas—this unmerited distrust from a neighbor when all he had wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

 

The light lowered, and as his dazzled eyes recalled their duty, a pale, stern face stood forth from the shifting shadows, crowned with golden hair. Eyes like stars pinned him with the same indelicate scrutiny as they had borne under the boughs of Lórien, but they had softened somewhat.

 

“There is no reason for you to ask my forgiveness. There was neither time nor opportunity to prolong our brief acquaintance beyond the perfunctory. I served merely as your guide—”

 

“Haldir,” Legolas said as if the light had revealed it buried in a dark corner of his mind. “Yes. I remember now.”

 

Haldir went very still and held up a cautionary hand. “Do not speak my name so loudly. We have talked too long as is.”

 

Quickly, he did something Legolas did not see that doused the lamp at once. Legolas, blinded once more, waited until he felt a warmth all along his side and lips pressed so close to his ear, he flinched a little.

 

“There are five within. They are well-armed but lack discipline. Deserters.” The word hissed like the curse it was.

 

“Gimli?” Legolas hissed back. “Does he live?”

 

A beat. “They did not kill him for they wished to make use of his knowledge of caverns to hunt out their lost fortunes. He still has the use of his legs.”

 

A thousand questions swirled through Legolas’ mind at the lack of utter assurance for Gimli’s well-being, but he forced himself to grit his teeth and pick up his bow again. He let Haldir take the lead and slid through the cave entrance after him. It was narrow and roofless in places and smelled like the bottom of a river. Moss greened the moisture-beaded walls.

 

After a little, the corridor began to broaden and lengthen. Signs of chiseling marred the water-smooth walls. It was not wholly dark for a little light trickled down from the open roof, and gradually, a red light appeared over Haldir’s shoulder, growing and reddening unevenly. A torch or torches. The sound of voices, worn and rough as chipped stone echoed oddly about them.

 

At the edge of the firelight, Haldir took hold of Legolas’ wrist and squeezed once.

 

Legolas held back, his heart thumping harder now. From his angle, he could just glimpse the open part of the cave where a group huddled around a spat of makeshift torches and another lantern. There were five, as Haldir had promised, though to Legolas it had seemed like far more. Four of them were busy at the back of the cavern, shifting carefully through piles of rubble where it seemed a section of the wall had fallen away. Gimli, to Legolas’ relief, was bundled up near the fallen wall, his face drawn and pale, but otherwise very much alive.

 

The gaunt leader of the group sat watching his men’s progress, his legs outstretched, his head tilted back against the damp of the wall. His oily eyes flicked over as Haldir strode into their midst.

 

“Ho, Thurin,” he drawled in the language of Men, eyeing Haldir up and down languorously. “Does the dark grow too thick out there for you?”

 

“It would have to be dark indeed to trouble me, Valachel,” an unrecognizable voice answered, ruined by mere decades of wine and smoke.

 

The firelight cast uncertain shadows, but even so, Legolas marveled at the change in his companion. Gone was the pale hair and face of the Galadhrim, the starlit eyes. In his place stood a Man: tall but rather gaunt, grizzled hair clung to withered cheekbones, and the eyes were smoky, a scar running through one of them and puckering a cheek. He had never seen such a thing in waking life though tales of the First Age spoke of the arts of men who could change their shape and face at will. What magic was this?

 

‘Thurin’ laid a gnarled hand on the wall and scratched at it idly. “I like this business not at all. When have we ever kept captives alive? What for?”

 

The one named Valachel rolled his eyes and flapped a loose hand as if in dismissal of a too-oft heard argument. “Why do men do what they do? For profit. For need. For survival.”

 

“The price may prove too high, especially since several among our number have more milk than blood in their veins,” Haldir said. “He is the son of a Dwarf-lord.”

 

“How is it you always seem to know more than you ought or guess better than you should?”

 

“A clever man should be able to do so.”

 

“Careful. Some of our fellows less worldly than I who would call such ‘cleverness’ sorcery.” Valachel got to his feet. “But me, I think it much more mundane. So, what would you have us do, if you led these men as you seem so eager to do?” The question was barbed and meant to bite.

 

Haldir only smiled. “I am no captain of men.”

 

Valachel laughed. It was not a merry laughter, but a hard between-the-teeth kind of laughter, the unsteady gleam more pronounced in his eyes. He stood slowly. He was near but not quite Haldir’s height and seemed to know it for he did not look away from Haldir’s eyes, the way a small dog watches for the point in his larger foe’s throat where he might sink his teeth.

 

He tapped the back of Haldir’s hand with the tip of his knife “What do you always carry that thing for? What use is a lamp that gives no light?”

 

“I never said it gave no light.”

 

“I’ve never seen it lit. You said it could show us hidden things. Where the treasure’s hidden.”

 

“And when we find the right spot, it will.” Haldir rolled his shoulders. “By the cut of his raiment, the Dwarf is no coal-miner. And he has the manners and temperament of a king under the mountain. Best to be rid of him, or it will be our hides when the Longbeards descend on this place to reclaim him.”

 

“I think you’re lying.” Valachel had not sheathed his knife. “I say, you’re afraid the Dwarf is going to take your place. Is that it? Dwarf’s sense is more useful than a dark lantern. Go on then, Thurin. Show us this light of yours, and maybe I’ll remember better why you’re useful to us at all.”

 

“It doesn’t work like that,” Haldir said. The knife point digging into his chin cut off further speech.

 

“Make it work.”

 

Legolas laid his fingers on his bowstring, but he did not dare shoot. Haldir stood between him and Valachel.

 

Haldir wiped a trickle of blood from his throat and crouched over the lantern.

 

Valachel stood over him, breathing fast and fingering his knife. “You think you’re so smart, old man. I know your kind. I could ferret out swindlers from swine by the time I was eight years old on the docks of Umbar. Latch onto whatever band will have you and then a dagger is all you need. Well, I’m no fool like my father, Thurin. I’ll not wait for your dagger in my ribs. That was your first mistake—”

 

Legolas saw the knife come down, but his shaft had already flown.

 

The blade clattered to the floor beside Haldir’s knee, its lame glittering in the light of the kindled lamp. Valachel made a strange, gasping noise, his eyes widening in disbelief. Though whether it stemmed from the Elf at his feet or the arrow in his chest, they would never know. He fell and did not rise again.

 

Haldir was on his feet before the sound of his falling body reached the ears of the others, his blade unsheathed, his eyes brilliant in the pale light. Legolas already had another arrow notched and flying. A second man fell.

 

It was over quickly. Haldir slew one, and the last fled. Legolas did not look at the men he had killed but crouched beside Gimli, who grinned a little at him, wincing when Legolas touched his arm. He cut a glance at Haldir over Legolas’ shoulder.

 

“King under the mountain, eh?”

 

\----------

 

Haldir did not delay but led them hotfoot from the caves, fetching up the little hand-lamp and striking out northward so far as Legolas could tell. That journey through the darkest hours of the night seemed endless as they followed the stream, crossing it back and forth several times, keeping to the rocks and scrambling over hard places when the easier way was to go around. A few times, Legolas was certain they doubled back on their own traces, and he became impatient where Haldir was leading them as fatigue dragged at his limbs, and the blood on his hands dried.

 

Gimli kept up gamely, but his face was ashen, and the way he clutched his arm concerned Legolas.

 

At last, when they had stopped for a brief halt, he turned to their guide.

 

“I have not rushed so since our Fellowship pursued orcs across Rohan,” Legolas said, trying to make out Haldir’s face in the faint moonlight. His tone was sharper than he had meant, nearly accusing, but there was little he could do to soften it now. “Why must we hasten so? It is time and past time we found a place to sleep the few hours of the night left to us.”

 

Haldir paid no attention to his tone. He had shuttered the lantern for use only at need, and his face was all in shadow save for a flicker of moonlight dappling through the trees. For a long while, he was silent as if listening to the wind tossing in the branches.

 

“A league or so more, I know a place,” he said at last. At Legolas’ silence, he added, “There are others. The ones that we slew were but a splinter-band. Valachel had a dragon’s penchant for pretty things and took more than his share from his fellows and his captain before he quit them. There are some two score who will miss the things robbed from them when they discover their missing comrades. We must be far away, and our trail hidden before it gets fully light.”

 

Legolas went to Gimli and roused him at once.

 

The resinous tang of cedar wakened Legolas a little from the half-sleep he had drifted into during the trek. They had come to the edge of a small copse, and the grey of dawn could be glimpsed between the branches in the east. Though he was bone-weary, he insisted on tending to Gimli before all else.

 

At first, the Dwarf was reluctant to be touched, even after Legolas explained that the strange, grey man was an old comrade of theirs. He sat at the bole of a cedar with his left arm cradling his right as if the latter pained him. The shoulder looked strange and squared. Just looking at made Legolas, accustomed to battle wounds as he was, feel a sympathetic pang in his own shoulder and the pit of his stomach.

 

“How did this happen, Gimli?”

 

Gimli pressed his lips together, the old stubbornness rearing against new pain. Pain won out, and he looked out towards and the dawn, letting his breath out in a thin, tight stream between his teeth. “They beat me. Nothing much, but a good kick landed in the right spot, I suppose.”

 

After seeing that their trail was well-covered, Haldir joined them. With Gimli’s uneasy permission, he searched the area carefully with his fingers, noting when the Dwarf winced and the lack of movement in the limb. His face was grave. “My brother once sustained a similar injury after a fall from a height. The bone has slipped out of joint, I think, but I am no great healer, and I am loath to do something that might do you more harm than good in the wild, Master Dwarf. Best to bind it lightly for now, and tend it better when we reach the eaves of Lothlórien.”

 

“Lothlórien?” Despite his pain, Gimli’s eyes glowed at the word.

 

“It is the closest and surest place of safety that I know.” Haldir pressed a few long, willow leaves into the Dwarf’s palm. “Chew these. They will ease your pain. Try to sleep while they last.”

 

Only when Gimli was comfortably settled did Legolas realize how famished he was. He had not eaten since camping down last night. But Haldir would not allow a fire just yet, so they eased their hunger on what provisions remained in their packs after their long trek up from Rohan where they had last bolstered their supplies. All that remained were a few withered apples, some hard cheese, harder sausage and a half loaf of bread, rather battered by their ordeal over the last few hours. Haldir supplemented what they had with lembas and a few hastily-gathered nuts.

 

“It is not quite their time, but they’ll do,” he said as he tossed the bag into Legolas’ lap.

 

Legolas broke off the white corner of a lembas cake and put it between his lips; it filled him better than many a good meal he had eaten at a king’s table. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his companion. Haldir had made no move to his own rations. Instead, he snatched the leather thong from his hair and ruffled the errant locks until they spilled loose across his shoulders. Then he began stripping himself roughly to waist. There was an impatient, almost desperate, air to the way he peeled off his tunic and the worn undershirt beneath and flung them aside. Pouring a little water over his face and forearms, he set to work scouring at what seemed to be weeks of grime, sweat, road dust…blood. Wherever the water touched, brown skin grew paler, dark hair rippled to gold.

 

“Forgive me a lack of seemly modesty,” he said, noting Legolas’ look. “It is too long since I have been in my own skin, and I would liefer return to myself a little before I break my fast properly.”

 

Legolas averted his eyes, cursing the warmth that rose up his neck at the confusion of burgeoning musculature and smoothness from an old man’s thinly pelted chest. “May I ask you something?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“This…” He waved a hand in Haldir’s direction without looking. “I had heard of such things only in stories. How is it you have such magic?”

 

“It is not so much magic as an eye for form and color. I have walked among Men, and I know of their habits and speech. But that said, not all of Lórien’s power is lost, and not all the knowledge of such arts died with Felagund.”

 

“The lamp,” Legolas said, understanding.

 

“The lamp reveals things for what they are. And water from the Nimrodel cleanses enchantment as well as weariness.” He lowered his gleaming palms and sighed.

 

“I asked you what brought a Galadhel so far beyond the Golden Wood,” Legolas said as Haldir rifled through his few belongings for a clean garment. “You gave me no answer.”

 

“Oh, I merely dislike growing idle. Now that the war is largely over, there is little work for my hands, and my mind and body grow restless,” he said, adjusting the nip of his belt. “However, I do not go abroad for my sake alone. Such men as Valachel do not serve only one master. Now that the Barad-dûr has fallen and Mordor’s borders lie open, kings of other lands—Harad, Rhûn, Khand—look to conquer lands that had once conquered them. But they do not love those lands that brought their conqueror low and reward well those who bring news of our movements and strength.”

 

“Those men were spying on Lórien?”

 

“They watched you pass with the King of the West, and they saw that the Lord and Lady would be abroad for some time with your company. If they had been allowed to reach Rhûn as they purposed, it might have gone ill for us.”

 

“You risked much for us then. Gimli and I stand deeply in your debt.”

 

“Nonsense. Have a strawberry. They are sweet after a night’s long work.”

 

And, as if by enchantment, he plucked a sack of wild strawberries from his pack and flung them into Legolas’ lap. He had not eaten such in many a long year, and he savored the slight tartness on his tongue, the beautiful rediscovery.

 

“My father had strawberries often brought to table for the summer feasts,” he said, selecting a brightly ripe specimen, “but they never grew so well or as so fair as these.”

 

“High praise, indeed, from the king’s son!” Haldir’s eyes were wry, but his mouth smiled.

 

“Please. I do not stand upon formality. It is long since I have fulfilled a prince’s duties and longer still since I have been my father’s son.” Only in the voicing of the words did he realize he sounded bitter and regretted the shadow that had fallen so unexpectedly on their easy banter.

 

Haldir cocked his head, nonplussed. “And what are you if not your father’s son?”

 

What, indeed? It was a question Legolas had put all his effort of late into not answering.

 

He had been told more than once that he was blessed and cursed with his mother’s mercurial Silvan blood. His father had instilled in him his own sense of Sindarin honor and tradition. Privately, he liked to think he was a being separate from both of them, a creature of adaptability, able to become whatever he must be whenever he must be it. To that end, he had quit the forest in the hopes that he might carve a niche for himself and only himself; he had become an envoy, a soldier, the eyes of a Fellowship, a hunter of orcs, a companion of kings, a friend to a dwarf…Yet now, the wide world had shrunk, and though he still held many of those parts close to him, he seemed to fill too many spaces or—on bad days—none at all. The resulting displacement had him all at loose ends.

 

His fingers snarled in the heads of the long grasses, nervous tension purging itself in nervous occupation, as if in uprooting the verge he could somehow uproot the disappointments and failings and painfully close realizations of his life. A smile, more self-recriminating than self-amused, pressed itself against his lips.

 

“Perhaps, I am Úner.”

 

No man.

 

The poor jape fell flat as a stone into a pool for Haldir did not laugh. He seemed, much to Legolas’ disquiet, to discern what lay behind his attempted facetiousness and did not press him when Legolas pled weariness as a palatable excuse to seek his bedroll. Sleep, however, was long in coming


	2. Chapter Two

Arod found them early the next morning, and Gimli, after some grumbling, was persuaded to ride to spare his shoulder further strain—though Legolas managed to couch it in more diplomatic terms. It was almost a fortnight to Lórien from the midst of Fangorn Forest, and the first part of their journey dragged for they were hampered by fear of pursuit and a forest where few travelers had had the temerity to make a lane, much less a horse-track for easy travel.

 

At long last, the forest dropped away to either side, leaving only a few venturesome outliers to follow them beyond the eaves. Below them, the plain rolled away to a vague haze in the distance. With the threat of danger eased, a straight path ahead, and summer still stretching its fine warm limbs about them, the days passed at leisure. Legolas found the burden of traveling with an injured companion much lightened for Haldir’s presence.

 

Freed for a time of danger and duty, the staid Galadhel lost much of his stiffness and proved capable of ready humor and incisive wit. His extensive knowledge ran the gamut from the bawdiest of tavern songs to husbandry and hawking to six different ways to cheat at bobstones Legolas discovered to his cost. When he had a mind, Haldir could run even Legolas himself, who had grown up with wine at his father’s table, through the notes and tastes and textures of fine vintages across Arda and promised to let him sample some of his own make when they arrived in Lórien.

 

They did not always speak, and the silences between their conversations were oftentimes just as welcome and comfortable. At the end of a long day of travel, Legolas, whose turn it had been to fetch the night’s firewood, stretched out his legs and watched his newest companion sort out the billets and kindling. Haldir had a deft touch— even wet, green shoots gave themselves over to flame under his hands though Legolas never did quite manage to catch how he did it.

 

Sometimes, in the coolness of the evening after he had succeeded in getting the fire lit, Haldir would linger over it, slowly feeding in larger and larger bits of fuel. The unpredictable dance of shadow and flame gave his chiseled profile a mesmerizing appearance: here a high cheekbone revealed for a breath giving way to a suggestion of lips, a tendon gleaming under his throat, an eye fastened on a distant thought Legolas could never quite tease forth. At times like these, Haldir seemed at once separate from and indelibly bound to the earth he crouched upon, to the wide grassland about them, to the twilight and silence themselves.

 

Watching him, Legolas shared in Haldir’s strange communion with the night and the fire, taking quiet delight in this unexpected companionship that had blossomed so fulsomely after the inauspiciousness of their first meeting.

 

Suddenly, Haldir’s eyes were no longer on the fire, and Legolas’ heart gave a peculiar lurch in his chest. The Silvan’s direct gaze never failed to leave him uncomfortable and wrong-footed, his face hot and hands quivering. A thing he had believed long buried uncurled in the depths of him. He stepped out of the firelight to see how Gimli fared.

 

\---------

 

They reached the eaves of the Golden Wood in the broad light of morning, the rush of the Nimrodel like a half-remembered melody in his ears. Legolas wasted no effort in toeing off his boots and rolling his breeches to the knee. The water sang over his skin as he waded in, curling his toes in the muddy bottom, the fatigue leeching from of his skin like poison drawn from a wound.

 

“Ah, sweet Nimrodel! I almost wish I were a reed that I might take root here and rest forever in her care,” he said, idly wading towards the further bank.

 

Haldir was watching him from the bank, amused. “She is a cold mistress in the wintertime.”

 

“Yet she is kind as a maid now. Will you join me?” Legolas asked, but he needn’t have for Haldir was already barefoot.

 

Gimli too splashed his face as best he could with the use of one hand, but the effort of removing his boots was too much for him. Instead, he stationed himself a little ways from the bank in the shade of a mallorn. He had not spoken much during their journey at all, and Legolas guessed his shoulder pained him greatly.

 

“I fear I have neglected him somewhat,” he whispered so that his friend might not hear, taking his lip between his teeth. He and Gimli had endured wounds and wars together, and Legolas knew better than to fuss, but somehow, this time, it had been much easier to let Gimli alone than usual.

 

“You have done all you need,” Haldir assured him, resting a hand on the small of his back. “There are only certain kinds of aches that company can cure, and alas, a hurt shoulder is not one of them.”

 

The waters of Nimrodel were said to dispel enchantment, but if anything, Legolas felt himself ensorcelled by, the clear water cool against his legs while all the rest of him warmed through. He said nothing. Neither did he move away from Haldir’s touch.

 

“I do not know your mind on the matter,” Haldir continued, seemingly oblivious of his fingers’ slow caress of Legolas’ spine, “but if you wish to stay until he is better mended, my talan is not far from here. It housed several of us at one time though only my brother and I reside there now. There is room for both you and Gimli should you wish it. Though, I fear, you will find it rather rustic.”

 

“More rustic than sleeping out of doors on tree roots?” Legolas said, but he was scarcely heeding his own words.

 

He knew from a strictly practical point of view that it would be wise to stay for a time, at least until Gimli could use his shoulder better. Though Dol Guldur had been brought to its knees, many parts of the forest still required time to cleanse. It would not do to rescue Gimli from men only to fall prey to spiders or fleeing orcs that still lurked there.

 

But a prolonged stay, delightful though the prospect of a real bed sounded, threatened to expose these strange, new undercurrents between the silences and conversations of late. Little ripples—a glance across the campfire, a brush of knees, or as now, a hand on the small of his back—had swelled to an undertow of unspoken thoughts, feelings, complications surging beneath the calm surface of brothers-in-arms traveling the wilds together. At least for Legolas. He hadn’t the slightest idea what Haldir thought or felt, and he dared not ask—though whether he feared rebuke or confirmation, he was not sure.

 

For all his youth among his people, Legolas knew of deep waters and troublesome currents. Indeed, his very blood ached for more of Haldir’s touches as a dry streambed for rain. Their nights on the cold, hard ground with their bedrolls spread close together tormented him with what it would be like to know those hands on his skin, to wrap his own in fallow hair, map that firelit face with his mouth and follow the strange and lively current to its source.

 

And yet…and yet…

 

The losses of Oropher and many of their people in the Last Alliance had driven the Sindar ruling class to forsake the ways of their Silvan cousins and find comfort in former traditions and customs. Legolas had grown up in a world where the expectations for his life had been laid down at his birth. It was his duty and should have been his pleasure as a son of the royal house to find an occupation that suited his temperament and skill, find a wife, and sire children. Relations between two men or two women, though tolerated among Silvans, were considered, at best, selfishly libidinous… at worst, a perversion worked upon the weak-willed by the Darkness that had at that time seeped into almost every corner of the Wood.

 

Legolas’ youth had passed in a blight of self-knowledge. He had learned at an early age that he was unlike his fellows when the closeness of his first archery instructor adjusting his elbow sent a thrill through him. The women his mates crowed of tumbling did not rouse him so much as the angular shoulders and awkward, jutting hips of the boys flushed with the exaggerated tales of their triumphs.

 

He was not the only one. Among Sindarin youth, such things were often excused as “ill-considered idylls” with the expectation that once the curiosities of the body were sated, the young man would return to the path expected of him. Many did. Legolas didn’t. When the years passed and Legolas showed not the least inclination towards any of the women dangled before him at every state occasion, a captain in his father’s service suggested a commission in the guard as a way to stave off restlessness and occupy his time. Legolas seized the opportunity eagerly though his father was less enthusiastic.

 

The guard, many of whom were Silvan, saved him from despair, and he took great solace in the pride and nobility of service, the honing of his skills with knife and bow, the bonds of soldiers that permitted greater intimacies than the strictures of court. In their company, Legolas allowed himself to forget that Sindarin blood ran in his veins. The captain, who had suggested Legolas’ placement, praised his courage and—beyond the light of the barrack fires—his body in wholly different fashion.

 

For a man, especially a warrior and prince, to lie beneath another was a thing of unspeakable shame. Legolas well remembered his father’s face when word of his deeds eventually reached Thranduil’s ears. He was transferred from the border posts to a watch on the gate, thence to a watch in the dungeons where he stared at the moist red walls and wished he might disappear inside them. He learned to quell his hunger and bury his loneliness deep and deeper though he felt at times he might die of suffocation. Even after he left his father’s house, his hands and heart had been too long repurposed for battle and death, and his desire had dulled to the point of vanishing entirely. Almost.

 

Yet Haldir, without any apparent effort on his part, had unearthed those old desires and wants, and he was waiting for Legolas’ answer.

 

“You are kind to offer your home to us—” Legolas started without knowing exactly what he would say. He turned to catch Haldir’s eye and instead caught sight of a sentinel in his greys, watching them from the hither bank.

 

At Legolas’ stiffening, Haldir followed his line of sight. His hand slid from Legolas’ back. “Ah, Gardhion. Your appearance is timely. I was beginning to wonder if our sentries slept.”

 

“Yours, perhaps. Mine do not.” The sentinel’s gimlet eye lingered between them a heartbeat longer than strictly polite before dismissing Legolas and his travel-worn attire in favor of Haldir. “Forgive my ignorance. But is it a custom for Lórien’s marchwardens to quit their posts with scant a by-your-leave? My sentries are stretched thin as it is without having to shoulder your duty as well.”

 

“I am sorry if my absence inconvenienced you or your men. It was not my intent to remain so long abroad.”

 

“Odd. I am told that is the assignment you favor. But to what purpose now? The Enemy is vanquished.”

 

“My fault, I am afraid,” Legolas volunteered, disliking the scorn under the sentinel’s thin veneer of professional inquiry bordering on interrogation. “My comrade, Gimli son of Glóin, and I fell afoul of wolfmen on the fringes of Fangorn. He was injured in the battle, and Haldir came to our aid.”

 

The sentinel looked him over with greater care, and his eyes widened. “My prince, forgive me,” he said with a much more genuine obeisance than before. “My men and I but recently crossed the River to aid in the recovery of the borders. I’m afraid companies and orders are somewhat mixed. Had we known to expect you, we would have had an escort.”

 

“None was needed,” Legolas assured him stiffly, not quite willing to forgive his poor manners just yet. “But, as I have said, my comrade sustained injuries and must be seen to as soon as possible.”

 

“Yes, of course,” the sentinel said, straightening to attention. “You will wish for lodging in Caras Galadhon, I presume? The city is emptier these days, but it is undamaged. Accommodations could be found easily for you more…suitable than a soldier’s quarters.”

 

“Oh, Gimli and I are easily satisfied,” Legolas said, not quite sure why he was arguing the point when he had considered the wisdom of accepting Haldir’s offer himself. “Indeed, it will be a luxury not to sleep on the ground with our weapons to hand.”

 

“To be sure,” the sentinel agreed, but his smile was only civil. “I was merely thinking of your comfort, my prince, and the outposts are, well…Some of the men out here have been long removed from politer society and tend to let their desires override their distantly-remembered courtesies.”

 

Haldir laughed, but it cracked in his throat, and his shoulders had tensed as if under a blow. “You argue like a Noldo, Gardhion. But the choice is Legolas’. If he wishes to remain with me, I have said that he and Gimli both are welcome.”

 

“And I would not see our prince or his honored companion discomfited because he is too well-mannered to refuse you,” Gardhion said. “I have no doubt you importuned him more than enough on your journey hither.”

 

“He did nothing of the sort,” Legolas said, outraged on Haldir’s behalf. He did not quite understand the quarrel between these two or what the sentinel implied by his being supposedly ‘importuned,’ but he would not bear such slander against his friend in his presence. “Indeed, without his valorous intervention, we might not have come to these fair woods again.”

 

Gardhion looked at him keenly and said nothing.

 

Haldir’s face had closed tight as a shutter drawn against a chill wind and did not let so much as a flicker show as to his thoughts.

 

“Perhaps, it would be best, Legolas, if Gardhion sought other arrangements for you,” he said, without looking directly at any of them. “Far be it from me to importune you.”

 

“Haldir—”

 

“If you will excuse me.” He dipped his head but kept his eyes averted. “My captain awaits my report, and as others have pointed out, I have tarried overlong.”

 

He cut off through the woods, his back very straight. Legolas watched him go, struggling against a cold tug of abandonment and failing as Haldir vanished amid the trees. He turned and followed after Gardhion.

 

\----------

 

The endless, rapid flow of the Silverlode seemed to pull him with it even though he stood on the safety of the bank. It pulled his eyes and his spirit down under the arch of the birch trees, beyond the edge of the woods, over stony beaches and houseless eyots, on and on over the Anduin’s tumbling falls to the Sea. He would sit upon a ledge of limestone that stretched a finger into the river, fascinated and numbed by the endless, swirling, eddying foam, the bits of leaves and twigs, the dross of lifetimes spinning away beneath him, past him, beyond him until he could see them no more.

 

More and more of his time was being spent walking these shores until he was almost as familiar with their curves and curiosities as the Forest River of his home. There was little else to occupy his time. Their lodgings in Caras Galadhon were comfortable and private though rather larger and emptier than two required. Their meals were provided by those who served the Lord and Lady though it was rumored they would soon be departing with a greater number of their people soon. Gimli slept and healed and grumbled about the limited uses of one arm, when they would begin the next stage of their journey, why Legolas insisted on lingering about him like a lost duckling instead of doing something useful.

 

In all that lonely stretch of riverside, he seldom came upon anyone. A glimpse of grey, perhaps, a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, but no one ever stopped to speak with him. He had not seen Haldir in all that time and guessed he was well-occupied with his duties to the northern fences.

 

Everywhere, there were signs of work to be done. Evil had come to the Golden Wood at the last, and the borders had suffered its brunt: scorched earth along patches of the river where fire had scoured it bare, blackened and leafless trunks leaning against one another like warriors a breath away from collapse…Most somber of all were the fields of alfirin nestled in the groves, their white heads stark against the grey dust. And yet, to Legolas, the landscape seemed more real somehow, more alive than it had been when he had last stepped within its confines as if a haze had been lifted from his sight, leaving things sharper and clearer, more beautiful for their wounds.

 

His feet led him by idleness more than design to the outskirts of the river and a sward of grass where men were at work. He had come across them before, but every effort to offer his services had been met with polite, but insistent, refusal. He did not ask again. Legolas, though eager to have work for his hands, understood. Grief exorcised itself in many ways for many people. These men were warriors all, men of Lórien for the most part, and there was a certain pride there, a certain unyielding stubbornness as they stacked dead timber, piled leaves, raked the filth of war and battle into pits, laying the wood to rest as much as the fallen beneath the alfirin.

 

So he took what distraction he could in observing their progress. But this time, near the hythe, some other work was going on. A birch tree had been felled near the bank, denuded and stripped of its branches, and two elves, one of whom looked very familiar, were crouched at its head.

 

Legolas watched from a distance at first, loath to disturb their work. Haldir’s hands were as deft at this as fire-making, and with little more than a knife and a small chisel, he eased the bark off the birch’s naked trunk in long, gleaming strips while his comrade rolled them inside out and lashed them together to use as a covering for what must have been a new boat.

 

They worked well and efficiently together, talking and laughing though their words were largely inaudible. At length, his segment completed, Haldir rose to stretch his back and eye his comrade’s work, gesturing at this or that and clasping the back of his comrade’s neck when he was ignored. His comrade slapped at the errant hand and retaliated with a sharp smack at his thighs. Haldir dodged the blow, seized his comrade round the shoulders and wrestled him to the ground.

 

Legolas ignored the sharp sting in his breast at their puppy-play, the obvious affection and intimacy between them; it was ridiculous to feel hurt and unworthy to feel jealousy. Haldir had never given him any reason to think—They had never even touched save in a manner that befitted the needs of wanderers on the road. He contemplated gathering the shreds of his dignity and quitting the place while he could, but as if the thought had drawn his attention, Haldir lifted his head and caught sight of him standing on the hill. Something flicked across his face, but Legolas was too far away and it passed too quickly.

 

Haldir rose and held up a hand, and Legolas, as if he had no more will of his own, picked his way down towards them.

 

“Well met, Legolas!” Haldir said, a little breathlessly as he aided his comrade to his feet and brushed the loose grass from his back and shoulders with such tenderness, Legolas flinched. “I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction? And how does Gimli fare?”

 

“Our accommodations are more comfort than we deserve, and Gimli is healing though he chafes at the restrictions upon him yet.” His mouth felt stiff around the words, and he could not help glancing sideways at Haldir’s comrade: a comely youth with the conditioned build of a warrior. He wore braids of rank in his hair and, at Legolas’ approach, had drawn a proprietary arm about Haldir’s waist.

 

“Understandable.”

 

A short silence fell, and Legolas pretended to examine their handiwork of the birch though he had memorized every detail already. “That is a beautiful piece of birch. You have skill in boat-making…Captain, if I remember correctly Lórien’s sigils of rank.”

 

Haldir glanced at the elf at his side then at Legolas again. “Surely, you remember my brother Rúmil?”

 

Legolas looked again at Haldir’s companion. At such close quarters, the resemblance of kin was unmistakable, Haldir a little taller, and he marveled that he had not seen it before. He clasped the proffered forearm. “Of course. Well met, again and my congratulations. You have risen in the ranks since last I saw you.”

 

“Indeed and thank you. Though, I must admit, it is largely through no fault of my own,” Rúmil said, giving his brother a little shake. “This one has all the ambition of a stone. I have been hoping to meet with you again. I have never heard Haldir rhapsodize before.” More than a hint of mischief danced in his bright eyes.

 

“Rhapsodizing? You?” Legolas asked, glancing between the two of them for there seemed some private joke he was not understanding. “I did not know I merited such.”

 

Haldir rolled his eyes at his kin and shook his head. “Forgive him, Legolas. Rúmil’s sense of humor leaves much to be desired. Like wit.”

 

“I was just making mock of my brother, not you, your highness,” Rúmil said with a slight bow. “He has this bad habit, you see, of moving his lips and making sounds of intelligence without actually telling me what or with whom he spends so much of his time. I had to hear it from others’ lips that you were once more among us.”

 

“Legolas will do just fine.”

 

Rúmil smiled. “Legolas, then. Tell me, Legolas, do you enjoy hearty meals, fine wines, and decent company?”

 

“As much as any,” Legolas said, bemused.

 

“Good. I can promise you none of those things,” Rúmil said. “However, several of our comrades are gathering tonight for some much overdue merriment. Your arrival gives us a good excuse to procure a cask or three for the occasion, and we would be honored if you would join us. Gimli as well, if he is able.”

 

Legolas glanced at Haldir, but his attention was wholly absorbed in the birch, his fingers examining the white flesh as if looking for some flaw in his work. Even with the Galadhel at his most phlegmatic, Legolas sensed him listening keenly, a coiled sort of waiting despite his languor.

 

“Well, I would hate to deprive you of your ‘cask or three.’ I should be delighted, and I am sure Gimli will appreciate the distraction.”

 

“Excellent! Until tonight then.”

 

\----------

 

Lanterns set about the grove burnished the faces of the revelers with a tinge of summer through green leaves, pushing back the night who had drawn her thick cloak about all save for the pale moon, riding high beyond the shoulders of the mellyrn. Somewhere beyond, a flute called with her lilting voice, and a harp echoed back.

 

It had been long and long since Legolas had sat with his back against a hewn beech log in the merry company of friends and wineskins, telling tales and singing songs and wagering more than they had in their purses to spare. Even Gimli had been persuaded—with little effort on the part of his coaxers, truth be told—to relate the victory of a Dwarf’s axe over an elf’s bow at the Battle of the Hornburg and afterwards to join in a game of dice.

 

Legolas himself was content with his wine and his watching. Almost, he could be at home amid the darkling trees of Mirkwood. The bonfires and the braised boar. These fellows might be the comrades-in-arms he had known in his childhood, if they yet lived. Acquaintances greeted him and asked him for news but no more. Strangers gaped at him in wonder: one of their northern kin who had journeyed so far beyond his homeland, but they asked no questions.

 

A Silvan fellow, who by his years could not have been much younger than Legolas himself, eyed him more than once throughout the night and stopped to talk with him at length. Once, the hunger in the lad’s eyes might have roused a concomitant feeling in Legolas, and he might have allowed himself to be led into the darkness beyond the lanterns, but not tonight. Tonight, such thoughts left a sour taste on his tongue.

 

Though the Shadow had fallen, they were still relegated to the darkness, to quick fumbles without faces. Where was their victory in all this? What did the change of the world mean if nothing changed? Amongst the company, celebrating victory, Legolas was aware more than ever of their defeat.

 

Even Haldir’s presence brought him no comfort, for his former companion kept himself at a distance, leaving scarce room for them to exchange a few words of greeting. Legolas could not blame him much. The elves of Lórien had had precious little to celebrate of late, and after all, Haldir was Silvan and surely found greater comfort among fellows who had known him longer than Legolas.

 

During the course of the entire night, he had not even glanced in Legolas’ direction though Legolas refused to admit even to himself that he had been watching, waiting for some sign of acknowledgement. He was not some lovelorn boy to cast fawn eyes after the object of his admiration in the hopes that he might receive a giblet of regard in return. He was a prince of the Sindar. He had ridden in the company of kings. He had faced the Black Gate and certain death. He had endured the rake of the gulls’ cries against his very soul. He was stronger than the tide that threatened him, or at least, he could keep it at bay. But that did not mean he had to sit while it lapped at his throat, choking him with the constant reminders of what he could not have.

 

With Gimli safely engrossed in his winnings Legolas slipped away out of the firelight. The path he chose was narrow overgrown with bracken in many places. The branches interlaced so thickly overhead even the moon’s bright eye could not find him.

 

Someone did.

 

Footfalls, heavy behind him, as if his seeker carried a burden or a bellyful or both, rang on the earthen path. Legolas stopped. Before him, the path stretched onward into thicker blackness that thwarted even his sight. Camouflaged by his stillness, he could listen to the whisper of blood in unseen veins, the fine susurrus of breath that echoed the rise and fall of his own chest. Muscles twitched in his flank and back as the figure moved in his shadow. He was already so closely allied with the one who followed him that when he turned, and a spray of moonlight lit a familiar face, Legolas was no more surprised to see him than if he had glimpsed his hand at the end of his arm.

 

“You are seeking me?”

 

The corner of Haldir’s lips curled, equal parts sheepish and chagrined. “There is a promise I made you that I have not forgotten. I looked for you, but you were gone. Rúmil feared you had been neglected.”

 

“Not at all.” The lie was easier than having to explain. “What promise was that?”

 

For answer, Haldir reached under his jerkin and handed him a small, silver-studded flask. “It is not your father’s Dorwinion.”

 

It turned out to be damson brandy of his own stock. Not the finest he had ever tasted, but after weeks of water, Legolas rolled the stinging melody of sugar and alcohol around in his mouth, closing his eyes in beatific appreciation. Its offer drove him to make his own. “Something so fine is meant for sharing. Would you join me? Or, perhaps, your comrades await you…”

 

“They are deep in their cups. They would not notice if the sky fell upon their heads,” Haldir said, sprawling beside him between the roots of an ancient oak.

 

They passed the flask between them, and for a little while, its rich flavor on his tongue and the warmth in his belly, nothing but the quiet dark about them, Legolas could almost believe they were in the wilds of Fangorn again, free of all the rest of the world, safe in the refuge of the wood. Yet, Haldir seemed ill-at-ease for he talked more than was his wont about little of anything, how the summer was passing, and the vineyards had had a far drier time than in past years. He spoke of his younger brother, Orophin, who had kept a vineyard after he married and was often quite miserly with its produce—though every Yule, he would deign to bequeath a cask to the barracks to keep the soldiers warm during their long vigils.

 

When he met Legolas’ eye, he let his breath out in a rickety, embarrassed laugh. “The drink-loosened tongue does wander off its path and into the ditch, so Orophin oft reminded me. The dangers of partaking of one’s own dram too freely. Forgive me. I did not mean to trample over you with my talk.”

 

“Not at all,” Legolas said, plucking the flask from its berth. “What has become of Orophin?”

 

“He sailed when the Darkness across the River began to grow too great. Rúmil and I had neither wife nor child to think of, so we remained. But we shall follow him before too long, I imagine.”

 

“There is nothing that keeps you here?” Legolas asked.

 

Haldir glanced at him then shrugged one shoulder off-handedly. “The Lady is preparing to depart, and with her will go a great many of our people. Rúmil will stay a little longer at least. He is enamored with a lady in East Lórien, and once his duty is discharged, he will likely go to her with a silver band unless I very much miss my guess.”

 

Legolas chuckled at the notion of the self-possessed Rúmil besotted with a lady. Haldir’s unusual willingness to speak, and the warmth settling in his belly emboldened him. “And yet, no band shackles the hand of the marchwarden. After all these years, are you so set in your bachelor ways that no worthy lady has caught your eye?”

 

Haldir’s smile faded as quickly as it had come, and he dropped his eyes to his hands. “No. I am as…unsuitable for married life as I am for rank. More so.”

 

An indefinable wariness lurked about the words, a soft sort of almost-admission that made Legolas leap to dispel the discomfort suffusing the air between them. “I find it difficult to believe that a soldier as valiant as you has not risen up in the ranks after all these years. Did you seduce the colonel’s daughter?”

 

Far from dispelling the discomfort, Legolas’ light-hearted remark only made Haldir shake his head. “Rúmil had the right of it more or less though he couched it in gentler terms. The truth of it, Legolas, is most of the men on these fences now are Sindarin like Gardhion or close enough. And no Sindarin man will take orders from one such as me.”

 

Realization crushed Legolas like a sea wave. “What does that mean?”

 

There was pity in Haldir’s gaze. “I think you know.”

 

He reached across and took up one of Legolas’ hands, holding it firmly, not in a warrior’s clasp or even a friend’s rough salute. It was a straightforwardly intimate gesture, impossible to misconstrue. And even had Legolas been the kind to muster ignorance, the brush of dry lips against the pads of his fingers would have enlightened the dimmest. A ripple went up his spine.

 

“I have worn my share of false skins in the course of my duties to the Lord and Lady, but where duty lies to myself, I would wear only my own. I would not importune you, Legolas, not for the world. But I cannot deny that I have watched you on our road together. I had not looked for such a boon as your peerless company.”

 

The words sounded practiced, and Legolas wondered briefly who else had received them even as he flushed to receive them himself. “You are kind to say so.”

 

“Nay, merely truthful.” Haldir squeezed his hand a little. “Am I mistaken in thinking my regard returned, even if only in small measure?”

 

For all Legolas’ diplomacy, all his good breeding and fair speech, he could think of nothing to say in the face of such a confidence. The wave had filled his lungs and he could do nothing but try not to drown in it. He had been told all his life that he was alone, that what he felt was a thing that would pass like a spring storm and leave him cleaner once it had left him. And now to find that Haldir, of all men, should share in his…affliction… and confirm what he had known but not known robbed him of all words.

 

He had been silent for too long.

 

Haldir’s face fell. His shoulders stiffened, a soldier preparing himself for the inevitably violent blow he sees coming but would wish to avoid if fate would have it so.

 

“Ah.” He withdrew his hand, leaving Legolas’ colder for its absence, and pushed it through his hair, flattening it with a self-consciousness Legolas had never seen in him before. “Well, I have made an utter fool of myself. Forgive me. I will go.”

 

Legolas’ hand closed about his wrist. “Wait, Haldir. Wait, do not go on my account, please.”

 

He knew the words he could utter that would make Haldir stay, but he feared them more than he feared losing Haldir’s company. It was one thing to pardon a fault in a friend, quite another to admit the same failing in yourself, and though he cursed himself for his cowardice, for his deception, for his own brokenness, he could not yet speak those words.

 

“Please,” he finished, lamely, letting the grey sleeve slip from his grasp. “You honor me. I am glad you feel comfortable enough to speak so honestly with me.”

 

Haldir’s stern features softening in the slightest of smiles was almost too much to bear.

 

To blunt the fresh edge of revelation between them, they shared another mouthful of the brandy.

 

“Not many have the courage to speak as you do,” Legolas marveled at his comrade after a silence that stretched too long.

 

“There is no time left in the world for hesitation. To hesitate is to lose,” Haldir said. “I am older than you are, Legolas. Perhaps, none the wiser, but older. I have fought more battles than red leaves have fallen in your woods, and each time, on the Dagorlad, at Fornost, in the dark of Dol Guldur, even if we had the victory, the Shadow had won for we had not destroyed it, only delayed it. It would return again. And now…and now, you and your companions have done what no one could. And I find I am wearied to death of defeat, of vagaries and circling words and pretending that my desires lie elsewhere than where they are. I am tired of being afraid.”

 

A shadow of leaves moved over Haldir’s face like ripples over a still pool, and Legolas put out his hand to see if, like the mirrored surface of water, it would splinter at his touch. But his fingers trembled, drew back.

 

“Daro.” Haldir’s hand caught his, brought it to his cheek, nuzzled into his palm. “You need not flee from me.”

 

Haldir’s fingertips brushed over his neck, startling the fine hairs to standing. The heat of him soaked through Legolas’ thin shirt. He had seen hunger before. Knew its feel and shape, the brilliance of its kisses, the quiet devastation of its culmination and dissipation. But the expression in his hard eyes smote Legolas like an arrow. This was something rawer, more demanding, and Legolas felt it flow into him from Haldir’s eyes: a warm current circling his knees rather than the sudden, cold deluge he had expected.

 

Their mouths were sticky with fermented sugar, but the tang of need on skin overwhelmed the cloying taste. Legolas gripped handfuls of fallow hair, like a drowner, needing to hold something fast as the tide billowed and swelled around him, in him.

 

And yet though he had craved such touches, dreamed of them, some part of his soul stiffened, resisted the desire that wormed through his veins. Another, colder eye than his own seemed to look down on him from somewhere above his head, and his mind fell into a kind of sleep. Gazing over Haldir’s shoulder, he watched two shadows grappling in a shard of moonlight, bucking and heaving in their madness, caught up in such throes, they would surely dash themselves to pieces. What were they doing but giving in to their fear? This was no stand for victory. This was defeat of the worst kind. A rough, half-drunken rut, enabled only by the self-effacement of darkness and hypnotism with hard eyes.

 

His arousal had waned as deft hands unlaced his placket. But that part of him had known too little of flame to remain indifferent to the spark wrought by Haldir’s touch. When the choice lay between defeat and death, defeat was kinder.

 

As with green branches, his desire was slow to catch, but once it did, it burned hot and bright and went out far too fast. With a muttered oath, he sagged against his companion, spent and gasping as if breaking the surface of the sea. And now, with the flame flickering and dying, the darkness crept over him and into him as he knew it would. All the little aches returned a hundredfold. His knees on the hard ground, the uncomfortable dampness of sweat and seed, the animal taste of another man’s kisses threatened to sweep him away under a flood of shame.

 

A spar planted itself against his flank, driven by insistent waves to butt against him. Fumbling, Legolas gripped it desperately. Haldir’s arms hitched him tighter, higher as if to spare him the tide’s fresh surge.

 

In its wake they clung to each other, limp-kneed, breathless, wet with sweat and salt. Two mariners flung upon the tideline amidst the wreckage of their ship.

 

Legolas pushed his wet face into the cradle of Haldir’s neck, clutching at broad shoulders, at the stony ground of a beach against the relentless pull of the sea. He was shuddering uncontrollably, and he could not stop.

 

The arms loosed their clinch but did not let him go entirely. Fingers stroked his hair. Lips pressed to his temple. “Poor Legolas. How you suffer.”

 

Then so soft, Legolas felt more than heard him. “You deserve more than a skulk in the shadows. We both do.”

 

Legolas said nothing. He did not quite believe anything else was possible, as he had not quite believed in the fragile hopes of Elrond and Mithrandir and the rest of the Wise when he had first set out upon the quest. But he had trusted in his eight companions, in his friends. In the course of things that had laid this path before him. It had brought him here. And, if not victory, it was something not quite defeat.

 

\----------

 

A third smoke ring joined its brethren in the corner where Gimli sat beneath the open portion of the roof, cocking only half an eye at Legolas’ bed, all but buried under their gear. Though his shoulder was restored almost to its full strength, he still insisted that it pained him if overused and, anyway, Legolas knew far better than he where the miscellany of their belongings had hidden themselves during their stay.

 

Legolas privately thought that Gimli knew he needed work for his hands and mind, something to keep him from thinking overmuch that this time tomorrow they would be gone from the Golden Wood and its denizens, onto Mirkwood and his father.

 

Gimli, however, had no compunction against reminding him. “I cannot say this visit has provided my fondest memories, but it was a pleasant stay nevertheless. For all their talk of leavetaking, the elves of Lórien still prove hospitable and generous at table. Some, in particular, have made quite an impression if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“Something on your mind, Master Dwarf?”

 

Another smoke ring floated serenely towards the ceiling. “Nothing in the least. Will you go to him tonight?”

 

Legolas kept his head bent over their packs. Gimli alone he had trusted with his secret. He could hardly have failed to notice that Legolas was absent most nights and returned in the early hours of the morning with Haldir’s scent on his skin, his mouth kiss-swollen. But though Gimli was his boon companion, Legolas was not sure how to broach the situation eating at him now when even he did not understand it himself.

 

One late-night assignation, which an overindulgence in drink and loneliness might have excused, had become a regular occurrence. Scarce a night passed where Legolas did not seek Haldir out on the fences. The wind in mallorn trees, the song of the river, the twilight that softened all hard edges wove themselves around him, in him. A net of unbreakable power before which his will swooned.

 

But such weak justification could not disguise the far more dangerous enchantment woken by Haldir’s fingers on his skin, the pull of his grey eyes, his determination to no longer fear what they were. It ached in his blood even now, and the sundering of such magic would surely rend him asunder the moment he left Lórien’s borders behind.

 

“I think I will remain here.” Legolas snapped the buckles on his satchel closed and raked both hands through his hair, searching for something else. “I would have us off by dawnlight tomorrow if we are to make time across the River.”

 

“Then he is coming here for once,” Gimli said.

 

“I do not wish to disturb you.”

 

“You don’t disturb me. The walls are true enough.”

 

“I think not.”

 

Gimli looked at him keenly, weighing and finding him wanting. “You are many things, Legolas, but I never took you for fickle.”

 

“I am not!” Legolas said, clutching at a garment and nearly tearing it. “You have no idea what it is like for me, Gimli! If anyone ever saw us…if so much as a word were ever breathed of how he—” He broke off. “I must abide by the mores of my people. I am their prince, the king’s son. He made me what I am, and even years away cannot change that. If I do not serve as an example, who will?”

 

“An example of what?” Gimli challenged, unmoved by Legolas’ agitation. “Of ignorance? Of cowardice? Or, perhaps, you would have your people follow you: it is acceptable in darkness as long as you can conceal it in the light.”

 

“It is easy for you. You are made of stone,” Legolas snarled. It was an old barb, too dull to pierce.

 

“You already have one friendship for which you might justifiably be condemned, and you’ve spat in the face of every one who dared decry it. Do you care for him?”

 

“It is different between Haldir and I than it is between us, Gimli, you know that.”

 

“Do you love him?”

 

He had not even dared ask that question of himself. He sighed, the fight bleeding out of him. “It does not matter.”

 

Gimli snorted and stabbed the stem of his pipe in his direction. “You have never let a small chance of success deter you from any course. Even when the likelihood was death. Now it is your fear that rules you.”

 

“The yoke of fear is not as easy to throw off as others would have it. My fear is not unjustified. Do you know how many years I had to hide my true nature? Do you know what it is to see shame in the eyes of your father? Do you know—? It ends here, Gimli. It must, and I can do nothing for it.”

 

“So, it is habit that rules you more than fear.” When Legolas looked at him, Gimli set his pipe aside and laced his fingers in his lap, leaning back in his chair until it creaked. “The world is changed, Legolas. And you helped bring it about. You could be the champion of those who remain in the shadows. Show your people that you are the example you would liefer be.”

 

So had he heard Haldir say, on many occasions.

 

“In the end,” Gimli continued, “you do not answer to people or king or country. Only yourself. And it is your own regrets you must live with. If the land of your birth, if your people, cannot accept who you are, seek some otherwhere. The world is wide, and you are not going home to remain anyway. Or were you, and you simply chose not to tell me that either?”

 

It was an unexpected question, but the answer came from him as if ready-made. “No. My heart does not lie in the forest any longer.” Legolas shook his head, a wry little smile tugging at his lips. “All these years of our friendship, I would never have taken you for love’s champion, Gimli.”

 

The Dwarf grunted and concentrated on rekindling his now-cold pipe. “Say ‘sense,’ rather. A Dwarf does not spend countless hours—even years of his life—laboring in stone, shaping gems and metals with his own hands to the mold of his mind, only to lock his craft away in a treasury never to be seen again once it is complete. And only a fool casts aside an unlooked-for gift for fear others will find it little to their liking. Are you a fool?”

 

\---------

 

There was no sound of footfalls, but the presence of another filled Legolas’ awareness.

 

Haldir stood in the doorway, still in his greys, his cloak draped over one arm. A light scent of rain and coal smoke from the wardens’ braziers followed him in like a ghost. He did not move any farther into the room even when Legolas met his eye, but wariness soon gave way when Legolas rose and held out his hand.

 

They drank of each other like men fortifying themselves for crossing a desert. But when Haldir moved to dout the lamp, Legolas covered his fingers and squeezed. “Not tonight. Tonight, I would see you clothed in something worthier than shadow.”

 

Haldir arched a brow rakishly as he un-cinched his belt and draped his tunic over a chair. “And here I have been mistaken all this time that you wished me clothed not at all.”

 

The light glowed warm on Haldir’s skin, and Legolas traced familiar terrain, rendered unfamiliar, noting the differing shades of skin at throat and abdomen, the scars whose smoothness had hidden them from his touch. “I shall miss this. I shall miss you.”

 

Haldir immediately enfolded Legolas’ hand with his own, pressed it until every bone in their hands revealed themselves. “And I you, beauty.”

 

“Your comradeship has been more than a balm to my loneliness, Haldir. It has been a comfort to me.” He could not quite look at Haldir as he said it and swallowed hard. Some words were still hard to speak. “More than a comfort.”

 

The grip on his hand tightened almost painfully. Haldir pressed kisses to his brow, eyelids, temple, drew a line with his mouth from cheek to chest. He put his face down and nestled against the inside of Legolas’ flank, breathing him in as if returning home. As always such tenderness drew an ache from Legolas’ chest, and he leaned his head back against the wall.

 

He had spent too long among Men. Time had become not just a slow wearing, but a sudden and violent rendering. That the span of a few months should undo him so thoroughly…that his heart should tremble so at the touch of another when for so long he had relied on its unimpeachable beat… He reached his hand over to the beside table and palmed the little thing he had laid there.

 

With his free hand, he stilled the long, beloved fingers as they moved to unfasten his laces.

 

“I am a thousand times a fool,” he explained when Haldir’s glazed eyes rose.

 

Haldir drew back. His expression changed little, but Legolas had spent many hours memorizing that face: he could read every line, every muscle twitch. He could taste Haldir’s sudden disquiet like blood on skin.

 

“It is a little late for regrets, Legolas.”

 

“No, no.” Legolas tipped the recalcitrant chin up. “There are none, Haldir. There could not be.”

 

“I do not understand.”

 

“Then I shall not use words.” Legolas drew him to his feet and closed the little pot of lanolin into his palm.

 

He stepped away then and stripped where he stood. Naked, he walked to the bed and crouched on his heels at the edge of the counterpane, back stiff and straight. He curled his hands on his thighs to hide their tremble. His sex lay quiescent between his legs, too nervous to be roused.

 

Haldir’s breath caught in his throat with an audible jerk, and clothing rustled as he finished disrobing. A quiver went through Legolas’ belly when the bed depressed behind him, but his spirit stiffened with some of its old resistance. To no other had he allowed this intimacy. When Haldir’s sinewy arms came around him, he did not lean into them.

 

His hair was lifted away and draped over his shoulder. In its wake, sharp, nipping kisses marked a path from neck to his shoulder. The tiny scattering of hairs there rose under the not-quite-chastisement. Legolas shivered.

 

“This is not a battlefield, Legolas. Do not fight me.”

 

“I must.”

 

Slowly, with infinite patience, Haldir gentled him, stroked his back and arms, running up and down his belly, across his chest and thighs. They knew by now the ways to touch each other, to give the other the greatest pleasure. His touches were light with the pads of his fingers, unhurried, undemanding. Slowly, slowly, the fight drained out of Legolas even as blood began to rise up through his limbs, and that part of him that longed for the succor of those hands rose hard and aching.

 

And now Haldir’s cunning fingers were no longer on his body but underneath him somewhere.

 

Legolas could not help the breath that balked hard against his teeth at that first, unfamiliar, invasive touch. He fell forward onto his hands, almost twisting Haldir to the floor in umbrage. And yet…he held himself there, waiting, teeth gritted, his forehead pressed against his clenched fists.

 

Haldir seemed to be in some kind of agony himself. His breathing was harsh and pained between Legolas’ shoulder blades. The hands running over Legolas’ body were feverish, trembling, hard and tense, like a dying man’s. Something in Legolas softened then. The detachment left him, and he clamped those fingers fiercely within his own.

 

Haldir’s hands lifted him, brought him arching back against the powerful body that held him. One of his hands remained anchored against Legolas’ breast, long fingers entwined with his own, the other wandering down over his belly, the curve of his hip, the apex of his thighs.

 

Gripped firmly in Haldir’s sword hand, Legolas felt himself being uprooted, all the old, clinging earth falling away as he was borne aloft. The uncomfortable pressure inside was changing shape, giving way, becoming almost-pleasurable, almost-wonderful, a sense of fullness and of completion instead of cleaving and severing. Nothing in his life had ever felt like this. Nothing. He was awash in it. But this time, he was carried above the waves instead of dragged beneath them. There was light and clean air in his lungs. The lamp on the bedside table glowed bright and brighter, turning all to white at the edges of his vision.

 

“Daro. Hold, Haldir, hold.”

 

The power of his release robbed him of all strength, and he would have collapsed had Haldir not been holding him so tightly. Two more strokes, and he was filled afresh with warm wet, rain drumming against parched earth, Haldir’s breath in his ear, fierce and sweet as a storm wind passing over the forest.

 

Listening to the rapid beating of each other’s hearts, the slow regulation of their breath, they sank down, legs entwined.

 

The lamp dimmed, but neither of them felt the least inclination to tend or extinguish it. Before sleep completely overtook him, Legolas rose to wash the salt from his body and plait his hair as was his nightly custom. Wading back through their jettisoned clothing, he noted the shadows lapping at the corners. In the lamplight, only the wide bed stood out, its sheets half-flung upon the floor with the abandon of torn sails.

 

“What will you do once your duty is discharged?”

 

Haldir’s eyes opened and as Legolas slipped in beside him, he tucked his arms behind his head as if bracing himself against the rising tide of reverie. “I do not know. If Rúmil chooses to sail with the Lady, I am like to go with him. But if not, I may go to East Lórien to abide for awhile, I suppose.”

 

“It does not sound as though the thought pleases you much,” Legolas said, resting his head close on the other pillow. “Enough of what others would have you do. What do you wish to do?”

 

“I?” Haldir said as if the word tasted strange on his tongue. His gaze wandered the length and breadth of the room as if searching for something beyond its confines. “In truth, I do not know. The world that I knew has changed beyond all bounds, and I find myself...struggling to meet it. I do not know if I should. I was right when I told your fellows that the world will never be as it once was, and I mourn for what we have lost. But, if we are to abide here only a little longer, there is much yet to see. Light has been let into places that once were utterly dark.”

 

“Have you ever ventured south?” Legolas asked, his fingers tracing other paths south along the warm body beside his. “Lebennin is quite beautiful this time of year. The climate, mild. And though there are no mellyrn, the scent of cypress oft drifts up from the sea. The orchards in Ithilien turn out brandies that would delight even your well-practiced tongue. On a fair morning, the mists of the White Mountains turn all to liquid gold, the pines strung with webs of glittering gossamer, and the stones sing the old songs. It robbed me of my very breath when I first heard them.”

 

“I do not need mountains to rob me of breath when you touch me so,” Haldir murmured against his hair, lacing his fingers with those spelling circles over his skin.

 

They lingered over each other this time, their loving muted, a quiet holding of time like water in cupped palms as it trickled away between their fingers. Haldir’s breathing gradually deepened in the rhythms of sleep, but Legolas’ mind turned over and over, busy with thoughts of the road ahead, of the road behind, and the strange, unlooked-for peace of Haldir’s body separated from his own by a mere few inches.

 

He rolled over and gazed up through the moving branches, the first of the light revealing everything in soft tones.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Readers will notice that I have borrowed two lines from the Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter “Lothlórien.”


End file.
